I reach over and pat her hand. “Me, too. Although maybe not Paris. Maybe the Bahamas.”
She nods. “I’d take that over a kick in the teeth with a frozen boot.”
I can’t help but laugh at that hillbilly expression. “To be honest, I think anyone would.”
I’m still thinking about everything Emmy said later that day as I get ready for Mike the Prepper to come over for dinner. I’ve pushed the boat out when it comes to showing off the bounty from our larder and garden—homemade breadandbutter, pastry crust for the chicken pie made with lard I actually rendered, a winter project William and I got up to one afternoon in January—and containing, of course, one of our meat chickens, plus potatoes and carrots from our garden harvest, kept fresh in burlap sacks in the basement. A root cellar is next on Josh’s bucket list of building projects.
Dessert is a huckleberry crumble with berries I picked last summer and froze and whipped cream and ice cream, both made from our dairy cow Mabel’s milk. All in all, I’m feeling pretty proud. Probablytooproud because I’m not actually sure what I’m trying to prove. Mike the Prepper, or really just Mike, seems like a perfectly nice guy, and there’s no reason to feel like I have to show him we are just as capable as he is. He hasn’t said we aren’t. At least not in so many words, and the truth is, I know we aren’t, so the sense of competition really is ridiculous.
“Wow, you’re really going to town,” Josh remarks as he breaks off a piece of bread crust before I can slap his hand away. “Looks amazing.” He raises his eyebrows, amused. “You’re not trying toimpressour neighbor, are you?”
“No,” I reply quickly, clearly fibbing. “But since he’s Mr. Off-Gridder, I just wanted to show him that we are, too.”
“Mr. Off-Gridder,” Josh repeats with a chuckle. “This guy has a lot of nicknames for someone we barely know.” He cocks his head. “But we’re not really off-gridders, Abs, are we?” he asks quizzically. “I mean, we’re doing great. And I’m proud of how far we’ve come. But if you’ve read any of my issues ofOff-Grid Survival—a magazine Josh subscribes to that I don’t read because it both overwhelms and depresses me—we’re pretty far from that kind of life.”
“I know.” I sound sulky, and I don’t mean to. “I don’t evenwantthat kind of life. I’m not ready for the apocalypse.”
Josh purses his lips thoughtfully. “I don’t think apocalypses wait for people to be ready.”
“You know what I mean. I just don’t want Mike the Prepper or Off-Gridder or whatever to make us feel bad.”
Now he frowns. “He didn’t seem like that kind of guy.”
“He doesn’t have to.” I think of Allie Hoffenberger, our old neighbor, who had a knack for making me feel incompetent and useless, all with a smile on her face and a kindly tone. She meant well, I know she did, and we became friends, but… I didn’t like how she made me feel, and that was on me. “This is a me thing. Mostly.”
“Ah.” He nods slowly. “Kind of like Obadiah was a me thing.”
I smile teasingly. “I forgot you didn’t like him at first.” I didn’t, actually, but it feels as if I should pretend I did. Josh, however, is not fooled.
“Yeah, right, you forgot,” he says with good humor. “I know it was petty of me…” He pauses tellingly, and I roll my eyes.
“And this is petty of me. Okay, I get it.”
Josh didn’t like Obadiah at first because he reminded him of all the people we knew back in Princeton who were handed everything they had because of their wealth and connections. And Mike the Prepper? I guess he reminds me of how little we knew when we started down this road, and it makes me afraid ofrealizing how little westillknow. I mean, I know we’re still at the beginning of our journey, if I want to put it like that, but… I don’t want someoneelseto make me feel that way.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I tell Josh as I put the chicken pie in the oven. “Chalk it up to pregnancy hormones.”
“You can use that excuse for four more months,” he says in mock warning.
“I can use that excuse for three more years, minimum,” I tell him tartly. I think about breastfeeding, nighttime nursing, and feeling constantly sleep-deprived. I’ve got a lot of good excuses coming my way, and I intend to trade in on them all.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Come in, come in!”
Josh is all genial bonhomie as he ushers Mike into our kitchen. He’s carrying a wooden bowl of salad that looks like it’s made of weeds—Rose and Jack eye it with definite suspicion—and a fistful of early wildflowers that are tied with twine. There’s a bottle of some home brew stuck in the deep pocket of his battered wax jacket.
“Welcome to our home,” Josh says.
“Thank you kindly.” Mike smiles at all of us, his gaze roving over our kitchen in critical assessment. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he remarks. “Do you have your own well?”
“Yep,” Josh assures him cheerfully.
“Solar panels?” Mike barks out.
I stifle a groan.Thisis what I was afraid of.
“Not yet, but that’s on our wish list.”
